Star Wars: An Old Republic Tale - Dusk to Dawn
by RQuinn
Summary: The indirect sequel to An Old Republic Tale - A Lingering Hope, this is the story of a young Mandalorian by the name of Zen Vizsla. Embarrassed of his clan, Zen escapes into the wider galaxy and taken under the tutelage of renown smuggler Nico Okarr in the hopes of someday going off on his own to make a new name for himself. Three years later, Zen may have found his opportunity.
1. Opening Crawl

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away….

STAR WARS

An Old Republic Tale: Dusk to Dawn

Ten years after the Sith Empire invaded the Republic initiating the Great Galactic War, Zen Vizsla, a young self-exiled Mandalorian, struggles to find his place in the universe.

Under the wing of renowned smuggler, Nico Okarr, he learns the skills necessary to make it in the galaxy's criminal underworld.

Confident in his acquired knowledge, Zen awaits an opportunity to finally go off on his own and make a name for himself in the broader galaxy…

.

* * *

 **From the Author:**

 **This is the indirect sequel to my first Fanfic Star Wars: An Old Republic Tale - A Lingering Hope. Feel free to check it out, but this story is written so that reading the first is not necessary.**


	2. A Business Meeting

Zen Vizsla…of clan Vizsla, a sorry excuse of a clan with no pride, no honor, and no real tradition apart for being the ass-end of Mandalorian culture. If fighting in the front lines of some great battle brought honor to you and your clan then the Vizslas were found the furthest from as "support" units to be used post battle to pick up the bodies of the dead. There is no honor in that. That's why he ran.

Zen, a boy with dark hair and near permanent bed-head, left his clan at the ripe age of fourteen to go become something bigger than any of his people ever hoped to be…And what does any good Mandalorian choose for a profession after their stint fighting for Mandalore? Bounty hunting. Of course, Zen had no real combat experience and his overwhelming desire to prove himself led him to go after the top smuggler in the galaxy…Nico Okarr.

Fortunately for Zen, he happened upon the smuggler one day. The smuggler's flowing overcoat, his dual pistols, and his large wide-brimmed hat…the man stood as Zen's one chance to make a name for himself. In an attempt to capture the smuggler, a fight ensued - if one could call it a fight - but old Nico felt something for the young man trying to make his way in the universe. So, from the kindness he scraped from the bottom of his heart, Mr. Okarr took the sorry excuse for a Mandalorian under his wing to show him how the galaxy worked.

Three years later, Zen finds himself in a grungy cantina on some spaceport on Nar Shadaa keeping an eye out for Okarr's "business" meeting. Pirates, smugglers, and bounty hunters of every alien race one could imagine populate the smoky bar as attractive Twi'lek waitresses bounce from table to table serving all manners of food, drink, and other less-than-legal goods. The upbeat music of the band of Bith playing their wind instruments is barely audible over the raucous chatter of the bar's tenants. Zen could barely pick up any individual conversation over the banter of drunk Rodian pirates at the bar, the loud grunts and hoots of the long-headed Ithorians playing pazaak, and the howling laughter of the tusked Aqualish two tables over…and that is why Okarr chose this place.

Zen leaning against the back wall of the cantina, does his best to look tough with his arms crossed over his Mandalorian chest plate and his head tilted down to shadow his green eyes. He positions himself just so that the blaster holstered at his side is visible to as many curious eyes as possible. Okarr, lounging in the corner booth his feet kicked up on the table, sits calmly and coolly speaking with the two hooded clients across from him. From what Zen could tell when the two clients arrived, one was a tall, burly man and the other an athletically built woman, but their faces were impossible to see under their hoods. Each carried a blaster strapped to their leg, and at their waist what appeared to be a lightsaber hilt hung loosely by their side. Were they Jedi? They did not dress like a Jedi, and Okarr would not tell Zen who he was meeting with if he could not help it. "Remember rule number one, Zen: Never share your client's information with anyone." There were a lot of "rule number ones" in Okarr's book. Zen just figured that the man just made it up as they went. Nevertheless, Zen does his best to eavesdrop in.

"So what can I do for you?" Okarr says downing a glass of Polaris ale. He then raises his glass signaling to the waitress for a refill.

The larger of the two hooded figures, the male, who stood a whole foot taller than Zen when he walked in, answers in a deep gravelly voice. "You're a smuggler. We need you to smuggle us."

Okarr chuckles. "Ok and where would you like me to smuggle you?"

The woman answers with a voice no less austere or threatening than the man's. "Mr. Okarr-"

"You can call me, Nico." Okarr winks with a charming smirk.

"Mr. Okarr." The woman unamused continues. "You know the ins-and-outs of this galaxy. The best places to hide. The best places to lay low. We were hoping you would have a suggestion?"

Okarr's drink arrives and he downs it immediately. He then winks and nods at the blushing Twi'lek waitress before she returns to the bar. "That's good stuff," he says referring to the drink. "So, you need a place to hide…and you want my opinion? Hmm. Who are you trying to hide from…if I might ask?"

The gravelly voiced man answers straight. "The Sith…"

Okarr's smile all but disappears. "Well that's gonna cost you extra. There's kind of a full-scale war going on across the galaxy if you hadn't noticed."

"We know," the man snarls. "We've been running for a long time…We're willing to pay upfront."

"Good, 'cause I'm fixin' to retire early."

Zen chances a look back at the meeting. Okarr reaches into the inside pocket of his long overcoat and pulls out an access card to his ship's hangar.

"Zen," Okarr says. "Keep your eyes on the lookout." Zen's eyes begrudgingly return to the cantina.

Okarr continues to his clients. "Now Mr. uh-"

"Arcadius…"

Zen interrupts. "That's a mouthful."

"Zen-," Okarr says firmly before returning to his clients. "I apologize for my young protégé here…and your name Ms."

"Flavia…"

Okarr slides the access card across the table. "This'll get you into docking bay 94," he says in a slightly louder tone. Zen smiles to himself as he continues to scan the cantina.

Okarr's voice returns to normal. "It seems like you have some secret admirers."

"Hey, kid," Arcadius says directing his words to Zen but not his attention. "Don't look back. Keep doing what you're doing…see those two out of place humans sitting at the bar?"

Zen spots the two. Dressed in custom black light-armor over black uniforms, the two Imperial agents stand out like a tusken raider in a group of jawas. If their overly stiff posture, their well-groomed hair, or their occasional glances over at Arcadius, Flavia, and Okarr were not a dead giveaway already, then the way the other tenants avoided them as if they were some contagious animal did.

"Keep an eye out for them…We've killed too many of their friends for them to want to tail us," Arcadius says.

Okarr claps his hands and rubs them together. "Well-pleasure doing business with you. We've got to go prep my ship…Arcadius…Flavia." Okarr winks at the woman as he slides out the booth.

"Mr. Okarr," Arcadius says. "That is an impeccable hat."

Okarr puts on his signature wide-brimmed hat nodding to the two clients before him and Zen head out of the dimly-lit cantina.

Stepping into the crowded streets, Zen's eyes take several moments to readjust to the brighter street lights illuminating the Nar Shadaa night. Okarr pauses to light a cigar from the plantations of Dantooine, his favorite, and soaks in his surroundings. The usually pleasant smell of the cigar smoke wafts in the air and is overpowered by the smell of the stinking body odor of the working masses, the pungent smell of refuse on the streets, and the pollution expelled from the seemingly countless starships soaring through the air.

"Alright, time to split up," Okarr says looking straight ahead. "Lose your tail and reconvene at the ship."

Zen replies, "Got it. What about…them?" he says referring to Arcadius and Flavia.

"If what my contacts say about those two are true then I don't think we'll need to worry about them."

"Well if we want to get paid…"

Okarr chuckles. "Haha now you're learning."

The smuggler and the young Mandalorian part ways heading down opposite sides of the street. Before Zen can take three steps, Okarr calls back to him.

"And kid," he says with his signature smile. "Don't forget Rule Number One-"

"Which one?"

"If worse comes to worse…shoot first." Okarr winks to his protégé before continuing down the road.

Zen cannot help but return the smile. Okarr has taught him a lot since "adopting" him, but he knows that someday – any day now – he needs to take off on his own.


	3. Losing a Tail

Nar Shadaa, the smuggler's moon, a place where anything can be bought for the right price. Even as a moon to Nal Hutta, the home of the notorious Hutts, Nar Shadaa is a formidable power unto itself. Towering skyscrapers blanket the entirety of its surface housing corporations, casinos, spice houses, and every other business imaginable both legal and not as thousands of speeders zoom through the vast canyons of buildings. Neon lights decorating the city skyline paint a colorful atmosphere for the rich enjoying a life of pleasure and excess, and disguising the dreary darkness of the underworld where the rest of the masses struggle for survival.

Weaving through the mid-level streets below, Zen Viszla does his best to shake the Imperial agent tailing him. All manners of people, human and alien, crowd the hectic streets from gangsters and bounty hunters to pirates and slavers. Scrap shops line the sidewalks as their owners beg with the poorest of Nar Shadaa's populace. Piles of garbage gather against the sides of buildings as muck and grime coat the disgusting metallic walls with a distinctly pungent aroma. No police guard this sector, just hired muscle protecting the turf of one of the dozens of gangs that run the streets making crime an everyday occurrence here – or more of an every hour occurrence as the occasional blaster shot from some dark alleyway is paid no heed.

" _Got to lose this guy,_ " Zen thinks to himself as he looks over his shoulder. The Imp agent hovers just far enough away that whenever Zen thinks he lost him, the next moment the agent reappears.

" _This guy is good."_ Since leaving the "safety" of the cantina, the agent following Zen had been good about not giving Zen a clear line of sight on him. Though the Imp's black helmet is as distinguishable as any other, in the hustle and bustle of the ever fluid crowd dotted with other helmeted figures zeroing in on him proved difficult.

Spotting a bazaar, Zen bumps his way through the crowd keeping the neon sign of the marketplace in sight. "Excuse me...Excuse me," he says writhing his way through like a snake, but no matter how much ground Zen covers, the agent gains even more closing the distance between them. To Zen's frustration, the dense crowd thickens with even more people as he draws nearer to the bazaar. After nearly knocking over another pedestrian for the umpteenth time, he decides to change tactics.

Pulling out several Republic credit chips from the side pouch on his belt, Zen holds up the money in the air. He then shouts to the crowd, "Who wants free money!"

The mass turns as one like animals at feeding time. Now with the attention of the wide-eyed multitude on him, Zen tosses the credits into the air to let the glimmering light of the multi-colored neon dance off the chips. The plastic currency hits the grimy street like a magical snowfall in early winter. Then, like a horde of mindless animals, the whole street energizes into mass hysteria as everyone brawls over the few hundred credits trapping the Imperial agent in the mayhem.

Zen, with a wide open window, disappears into the now empty bazaar.

* * *

" _Woooowwww – what a place,"_ Zen thinks sarcastically. Draped canvas covers the threatening marketplace lined by shop after shop. In most other corners of the galaxy, rusty broken junk make-shifted into other forms of junk would be considered less than desirable. However, Nar Shadaa's underworld required people to make do with what they could scrounge. Shop keepers who remained at their post despite the chaos outside, eye Zen with a hunger one would see in the eyes of some caged beast that had not been fed in days.

"Ee-chota mak yedongo?" A gangly, pale, green-skinned Rodian in tattered clothes appears from the shadows of his stall reaching out to Zen nearly grabbing his arm with its long, slender fingers causing the young man to jump back. The Rodian's large round eyes twitch with near craze as if in withdrawal.

"Whoa! - ah…no thank you," he says waving his hands to refuse the Rodian's offer.

"Gewatta be portu…Gewatta be azperute…" the Rodian pleads gesturing toward the goods placed on his little shop's table. A cracked eye of a protocol droid, the rusted motor for an astromech, a rotted wooden grip for a blaster pistol...it was a wonder these shops sold anything.

Zen retreats from the twitchy-eyed alien. "Sorry, I don't think I can afford any of that…I - uh- kind of blew all my money." Before the Rodian can respond, Zen bolts out of the area deeper into the gloomy market.

* * *

 _"That agent will be on my butt any minute. Need a place to hide."_ Zen scans the area, looking high, low and everything in between, as he moves between the extended arms of the various shopkeepers. Merchants selling broken glass jewelry, repurposed speeder parts, black market blasters, rotting fruit, and other less than pristine goods fight for Zen's attention with various sales pitches that included one of the most cunning Zen had ever heard: buy two get the second one free. Apparently, even in the underbelly of the galaxy, retailers here knew how to make a devious sales pitch.

 _"This will do."_ Zen spots a vacant droid parts shop nestled in a once abandoned housing unit allowing him a proper place to hide and wait out the agent.

Parts for seemingly any droid litter the back area of the shop. Arms, legs, torsos, and heads hang from the walls and ceilings while processors, wires, logic chips, and other components fill boxes stacked in unkempt rows throughout. Compared to the other fine retailers of the bazaar, this shop actually had some worthwhile items. Finding him a place to sit on a pile of disposed limbs, Zen relaxes in the near darkness of the room.

"Well, time to play the waiting game," he says to himself putting his hands behind his head.

The eerie darkness of the room with the humanoid-like droid parts dangling from the ceiling could have been mistaken for the home of some crazed serial killer...but Zen could not be the least bit bothered. He enjoyed droids, repairing the few his clan sent his way back on Mandalore. His dream was to someday possess the prized possession of any proud Mandalorian warrior, a basilisk war droid. Resembling some kind of cross between a Zalorian rock-lion and a Karran beetle, the six-legged "iron beasts" were the epitome of weapons technology with uncanny firepower, armor, and maneuverability. However, Zen is not a warrior. He was never considered one anyway. It would take a miracle for him to be accepted back into his clan, let alone Mandalore itself after running away.

...but that is too much to worry about for now. Sinking deeper into the pile, Zen re-shifts his weight to get more comfortable and enjoy the silent darkness.

"Query." A hollow, metallic voice followed by a second higher-pitched, playful voice break the silence of the room. "What is this game you speak of? - _And can we play, too?_ "


	4. A Split Personality

"Who's there?" A startled Zen says, his voice nearly cracking. "Ahem – who's there?", he says deeper and with an attempted gravitas.

"Observation: It appears the organic's voice box is slightly malfunctioning." The first voice says followed immediately by the second's lighter tone "- _hehe just like ours._ "

"Where are you?"

"Derogatory statement: Apparently the organic's large rear lacks any sort of sensitivity to what it decides to sit on."

 _"Large rear?"_ Zen thinks to himself puzzled at the mysterious voice's words.

"- _atleast it's better company than the shop owner,"_ the second voice says.

Zen realizing the source of the voice's location stumbles to his feet and whips himself around to stare at the pile of droid parts on which he was resting. Nothing out of place, for a pile of limbs, jumps out to him through the darkness. Regardless, he asks the voices again. "Ok, where are you?"

"Annoyed statement: *sigh* I thought it was obvious. Clearly the organic stood up but I guess its blindness renders it unable to see us – _it's ok, atleast it isn't deaf._ That is one positive. – _maybe it has other skills that could help us?"_

Zen follows the voices to the pile. "Hey, I can hear you and I can see perfectly."

"Exclamation: It responds with the obvious! – _and it says it can see too! –_ Maybe we have found something."

Removing arms and legs from the heap, Zen digs his way around searching for the source of the voices. From the bottom of the pile, a pair of red glowing eyes shines up at him.

"Statement: There you are. Now that you have found us would you be so kind and remove the clutter about us. We haven't moved in a great long while and so wish to stretch our legs - _and flex our trigger finger!"_

Zen reaches in pulling away everything not attached to the pair of red eyes. In the end, all there is of the droid is little more than the eyes and most of the head. While rusty and chipped as a whole, only half the once silver head seems to be completely intact. The other half, Zen realizes, had been hampered with. Loose wires protruding from the crown of the head and neck area indicate the tinkering the shop owner may have perpetrated on the droid.

"Observation: Ah, it appears that the rest of us seem to have been misplaced. If you could be so kind as to find our missing self, we would be partially grateful."

Zen raises an eyebrow. "Partially?"

" – _well_ _we are just a head."_

Zen, unsure of what to make of the droid, places the talkative head on a nearby box keeping its red eyes facing him. Is it a protocol droid? More than likely. Though the shape of the head suggests something more aggressive and militaristic than a mere passive translating droid.

"Question," the head says. "Is there a problem? – _yeah, I don't like the way it is looking at us."_

Zen purses his lips before speaking. "Before I help you…What the hell are you?"

"Apology: Where are my manners? I am afraid we've been in that pile for so long that we had forgotten common courtesy – _for shame! It almost makes me cry._ Almost."

Zen raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. He cannot help but think how strange of a droid he has stumbled upon. If only Okarr were here to see this thing. "Well?"

"Introduction: I am designated H – _K –_ 50\. I a humble droid fully functional and proficient in both protocol and combat. – _we're kind of a big deal."_

"So a big deal huh? And fully functional…" Zen says with a smirk.

"Character analysis: It appears the organic is programmed with sarcasm as well – _lucky._ Clarification: I am proficient in protocol and combat, but as you can see – _we're desperate!"_

"Ok ok." Zen paces back and forth in view of the head. He can imagine the scanners of the HK head watching his every move. "Let's say I rebuild you…then what?"

The HK pauses a moment before speaking. "Answer: If you rebuild us, I would be willing to *shutters* serve you as my new master – _anything at this point is better than this."_

Zen halts his pacing. He has always wanted a droid, though one of more brutal standing within Mandalorian culture. Nevertheless, if this droid is combat proficient, as it says, then maybe it would be worth having as a tag along especially if he were planning to leave Okarr soon. "Ok HK-50. I'll rebuild you under those terms."

"Celebratory remark: Hoozah! – _Yippee!_ Please never say that again."

Zen looking into the darkness of the surrounding shop, his eyes dart between the dangling arms and legs on the ceiling, to the pile on the ground, to the opened torsos lining the walls. Where to begin? "HK-50," he says.

"Request: You may call us H- _K."_

"Ok, H…K. Is the rest of you even in here? There's a lot to go through and not a lot of time for me to be playing around in the dark."

"Statement: I assure you I am here. Otherwise, that shop owner will be ripped apart limb from limb with my own hands – _or his hands!"_

Zen shakes his head in amusement. "I don't think that'll be necessary. Just tell me yes or no as I go through everything."

Zen works his way up and down the small backroom of the droid shop. As he approaches various droid parts, the HK head would call out a simple "yes" if the part belonged to him or a "hell no" if not. Surprisingly, all of HK-50's body remained in the shop, spread out to the far corners of course, but it is all there. HK-50's body is large and robust with mass amounts of carbon scoring and scratches covering the silver armor plating of its chest. The long arms and five fingered hands remain completely intact and ready to go along with its large legs. To Zen's good fortune, and HK-50's, reassembling the bipedal droid's body is a simple matter of plugging and rejoining the joints. After a quick put together of several minutes, HK-50 was ready to go.

Standing on his feet once again for the first time in forever, HK-50 looms a whole foot taller than Zen. Even if he was lying about being combat proficient, it would at least look intimidating.

"Statement: Oh it feels good to walk again – _I feel like a newborn baby._ Thank you very much, Master."

Master. What a strange word for Zen to hear spoken of him. Growing up as the lowest of the low on Mandalore, and shadowing under the wing of a smuggler, Zen had only dreamed of being something bigger than a simple subordinate. Now, he was something. The word 'master' is reserved for those with responsibility and who answered to only themselves. A rush of confidence floods Zen's being as he stands just a little taller, but not tall enough.

The massive seven foot droid goofily walks around the room slowly recalibrating its body to move in a more natural way.

"Question," HK-50 says, "May I ask your name? I feel like I should know otherwise I'll only know you as 'Master' – _and that's not right."_

"My name's Zen. Zen Viszla."

"Offensive statement: 'Master' will do."

Zen smiles. "None taken. My name isn't worth much where I come from."

"Suggestion: Perhaps you should call yourself by a new name. – _there's nothing like a fresh start."_

The idea is not a bad one. A new name would essentially cut ties with his clan and any other Mandalorians he stumbles across would then have no suspicion of him. But what name does he go by? It should be cool and heroic sounding, but not too over the top. It should make him more mysterious, yet causes other to yearn to know more about him. Starkiller? Starlord? No, those names were probably already taken.

"Hey, HK," Zen says watching the droid clumsily knock over an astromech head from a table. "What's up with the –uh- split personality?"

Continuing its pacing, HK answers, "Analysis: It appears that several logic chips in my head have been damaged resulting in poor – what you organic's call- brain functionality." HK-50 points to the clump of wires protruding from the top of his head. "Observation: The boxes in the shop are full of chips and processors. Odds are that mine is in there somewhere – _good luck finding it- s_ arcasm does not help here. _"_

The second voice is right. There are a couple dozen boxes spread out around the room filled to the brim with hundreds of different droid and computer components. It would take hours upon hours for them to dig through it all to find the one that belongs to HK-50, and time Zen did not have. The Imperial agent is probably combing the bazaar and nearing Zen's location. Luckily, for him he now had –

"Don't move smuggler!" The agent stands at the doorway of the room, his blaster pointed straight at Zen's forehead. His matte black armor melts into the darkness as the glow of his helmet's red visor flicker's with readouts being read by its wearer.

Zen raises his hands in the air in surrender. HK-50 simply looks on.

"Statement: Master, simply give the order and we can replace this organic's head with one of the other's here – _plus we want his blaster really bad."_

The agent's blaster quickly points at HK-50. "Keep your droid over there." Returning his aim at Zen, the agent continues. "Now you are going to tell me what you know of the Journeyman Protectors, and which hangar you were to meet them."

"I don't know anything of what you're talking about."

The agent lowers his blaster. He then takes a single step forward and fires a tazer from a forearm gauntlet at Zen. The surge of electrical energy causes a storm of pain throughout Zen's body throwing him to the floor. He writhes on the ground as the tens of thousands of volts of electricity lock his muscles in violent spasms.

Ending the flow of electricity, the agent asks again. "Tell me what you know."

Zen, breathing heavily, gasps out his answer. "Hangar…94."

The agent sends another shock through Zen's body. "Don't bother lying to me. Where are you supposed to meet, boy?"

Zen looks up in fear at the agent hovering above him. If he could see through the helmet's visor, he could imagine two emotionless eyes, black as night, staring straight through him. This is why clan Viszla were at the bottom. They were fearful. He was fearful. How could he ever hope to be a warrior if he cannot face his fears. Zen closes his eyes in submission.

"Tell me! Where is the rendezvous poi-!"

Zen slowly opens his eyes to see a light saber, unlike any had ever seen or heard of, rammed through the heart of the agent. The blade glows black and outlined in white as the subtle sizzle of the burning flesh whispers in the room. From behind the agent, the hooded man, Arcadius snarls in the ear of the Imperial.

"Here…"


	5. Arcadius

Zen follows a step behind the hooded Arcadius as they exit the bazaar returning to the streets of Nar Shadaa. The man leads him through the ever fluid crowds, navigating the busy streets with ease like water flowing down a rocky slope. Zen cannot help but be impressed as the relatively large man, whose face he had yet to see from under the shadow of his hood, moves with a grace and purpose. Growing up Zen was taught by the Mandalorians to observe his enemies to look for weaknesses that he can exploit. Okarr taught him to observe everyone to learn people's habits and discover their tell to use to his advantage. From what Zen could surmise, Arcadius is in complete calm and control.

Arcadius cuts left through the crowd leading Zen into a near empty alley right as a speeder passes behind them to conceal their movement.

"Where are we going?" Zen asks confused in the sudden change of direction.

"The long way," Arcadius says with a gravelly voice.

"Why?"

"Your droid sticks out like a sore thumb," the man says turning to gesture toward HK-50 following a few meters behind them.

Zen had almost forgotten about HK-50 from the stress of being nearly killed by the Imperial agent and then witnessing said agent being killed by Arcadius. HK-50 had relished in that moment, complimenting Arcadius on the clean kill and then begging to have the agent's blaster rifle and pistol.

"I don't remember seeing that droid at our first meeting," Arcadius says continuing past a few homeless aliens keeping warm by a small dumpster fire. "How long have you had it?"

Before Zen could answer, HK-50 interrupts. "Answer: I have been in my Master's service for exactly 23 minutes and 51 seconds – _but it's felt like a lifetime."_

Zen answers for himself. "What he said. For 23 minutes."

"Correction: 24 minutes."

Zen can hear Arcadius chuckle. "So, what? You decided to go shopping?"

"No. I just – I kinda just happened upon him," Zen says. His and HK-50's meeting was an odd one.

"Well it doesn't hurt that you got it for free…and an assassination droid for that matter. It'll do well in a fight."

"Wait, what?" Zen says shocked. He then turns to face HK-50. "You didn't tell me you were an assassin droid!?"

"Statement: I told you Master that I am proficient in combat and protocol – _we would never tell a lie."_

"Hey, combat and assassination are two different things."

Arcadius interjects. "It all depends who you're talking to. You're a Mandalorian, right? I thought the thrill of a fight got you guys high."

"Yeah, but…" Zen knew he was right. The Mandalorians were on an everlasting quest to better them individually and as a whole through war. Killing is what they do, and they are very good at it.

"But what?"

"I – I don't know." Zen runs his fingers through his hair.

Arcadius stops under a doorway light. Tiny moth-like insects flutter around the lamp casting tiny shadows that dance in the alley. Zen nervously watches as Arcadius slowly turns to face him. No face from beneath the hood is revealed, just a mouth and stubbled chin. Zen can feel the intense gaze of the faceless man as if he staring right through him uncovering everything about him.

"How many fights have you been in, kid?"

"What?"

"Have you ever taken a life?"

Zen lowers his eyes. He then says straightly, "No."

"And you're a Mandalorian?"

Zen feels like sinking into the ground. His shame for his clan begins to resurface, the blame every increasing.

Arcadius then tells Zen the last thing he expected to hear. "You have my respect."

Zen perks up stunned at the man's words. He once again looks up at Arcadius in hope to see a more human face, but alas the man remains in shadow.

Arcadius continues. "Taking a life is never easy. Your culture has all but forgotten that fact. It is a breath of fresh air to find one who understands." Arcadius turns to continue down the alley.

Zen reflects as he watches the hooded man fade into the shadows nearly disappearing into the darkness. He had never been complimented like that before. It was almost funny. A congratulatory remark for a Mandalorian with no love for battle.

"Commentary." HK moves to stand next to Zen. "What a strange organic? Killing is very easy – _especially organics, they're a lot softer than droids –_ Agreed. It does not require much effort. – _just the squeeze of a trigger._ "

"HK…" Zen does not completely know what to say.

"Suggestion: I can teach you how, Master, if you so desire – _we're pretty good at it._ Or I could do the killing for you – _we're pretty good at it."_

"Let's stick to no killing for now…for both of us," Zen says.

"Statement: I won't say I'm not disappointed, but you are the Master."

Zen pauses before raising an eyebrow. "What? No second voice?"

"- _what second voice?"_

"Hey, kid," Arcadius calls out from down the alley. "Hurry up."

* * *

Zen and HK-50 jog to catch up with Arcadius. Zen continues to observe the man, especially the light saber hilt dangling from his belt. That was one of a hundred mysteries that Zen wanted to know of Arcadius and Flavia. Okarr spoke nothing of the two, only mentioning that they were both extremely dangerous. If they were Jedi, they were unlike any Jedi he had ever seen. Zen knew Okarr was good friends with a few of the Jedi, and he had met them before. Currently, the Jedi are busy aiding the Republic in their fight against the Sith Empire.

Were they Sith? The Sith are notorious for turning on one another, so it is no surprise that Imperial agents would be after them...but the agent Arcadius killed said something interesting to Zen. He called them Journeyman Protectors. What is a Journeyman Protector? Are they some sort of faction within the Sith? That could explain the black light saber. However, neither Sith or Jedi use black as a light saber color...well, at least to his knowledge.

"Something on your mind?" The man asks.

Zen shakes his head even though Arcadius cannot see him. "No."

"You sure about that?"

Zen does not hold back. "Who are you and why do the Sith want you so bad?"

Arcadius halts. The giant man holds his position as his massive frame squares up to an invisible entity in the darkness. A fear begins to build within Zen as he begins to feel he has crossed a line.

The man quietly speaks. "My name is Arcadius. That is all you need to know." He continues walking down the alley with Zen not a step behind.

"Are you a rogue Sith? A Jedi?"

Arcadius snorts with laughter. "Just 'cause I carry a light saber doesn't -"

"Then what's a Journeyman Protector."

"Where did you hear that?"

"The Imp agent asked what I knew about Journeyman Protectors."

Zen waits for a response from Arcadius. The man sighs before stopping to turn and face Zen. Zen himself halts nearly bumping into Arcadius. Pulling back his hood, Arcadius reveals himself to the young Mandalorian. Scars adorn the ridged face of the middle-aged man while grey hair pepper his mustache, sideburns, and slightly balding head. Tired ice blue eyes stare straight into Zen's.

"Flavia and I are the last of our people. The Sith massacred and destroyed our homeworld when they invaded the galaxy ten years ago. A week before the invasion, a transmission was sent out calling all Journeyman Protectors to return. I declined, as did Flavia, so that I could finish my objective."

"What objective?"

Arcadius snarls. "A senator needed to die."

Zen furrows his brow. "Wait - you're an assassin?"

"Remark." HK-50 says. "I take back what I said earlier, Master. - _we like this guy."_

Arcadius continues. "Simply put...yes."

"And Flavia?" Zen asks.

Arcadius nods. "All Journeyman Protectors are."

"Then why did the Sith kill your people?"

Arcadius pulls his hood back up, concealing his face once again. "Because the Emperor fears us."


End file.
